


double booked

by maih_em



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Disaster boyfriends, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, It's Idiot Time!, M/M, accidental meet the parents, also me just being hungry for quiche, bisexual george fancy, pretending not to be boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maih_em/pseuds/maih_em
Summary: T-minus two minutes until utter disaster.Until an unstoppable force meets an immovable object and two very separate parts of his life collide, leaving him to try and keep the pieces together.And he was still in his bloody pyjamas.
Relationships: Ronnie Box/George Fancy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 21





	double booked

George still wasn’t quite used to the fact that he could, at almost any time of day provided neither of them were working, send Ronnie Box a text and have the man arrive at his flat about a quarter of an hour later, _just to see him_. He suspected the novelty would never really wear off.

It was Saturday, and George had the day off, which meant not getting properly dressed and eating nothing but frosted Shreddies, perhaps playing some Halo for a while. Except on this _particular_ Saturday, Box happened only to have a morning shift, so only the first few hours of the day disappeared into his Xbox. He texted the other man just after midday, presumably as he was leaving work, and Box predictably replied that he would be about 15 minutes.

See, they had their little routines. God knows how George deserves it all, but he wasn’t going to complain.

He was about to extricate himself from the nest he’d formed on the sofa (one perk of living alone is that you can bring your entire duvet into the living room on your day off and sit under it while shovelling handfuls of cereal into your mouth without anyone to judge your life choices) when his phone buzzed again, this time not from Ronnie but from… his mum?

_I’m in Oxford for work today – are you around at the moment?? I’d love to finally see your new flat. Mama xx_

Well. Fuck. All kinds of fuck. For his mum, asking permission is just her way of saying ‘I’m coming around, and you have no choice in the matter’. She was probably already on her way. _Box_ was probably already on _his_ way, driving with his phone on silent in the passenger seat. George felt like he was watching a disaster start to unfold in slow motion right in front of him.

**_Sure :)_ **

_Great! I’m bringing something for lunch from M &S. ETA 10 minutes love you xx_

George let out a string of curse words as he surveyed the clutter in his flat, dragging one hand through his hair.

He dialled Ronnie’s number and let it ring on speakerphone on the table as he sprinted into his bedroom and gathered up whole piles of dirty clothes in his arms before shoving them into the laundry basket and, when that was full up, into the bottom of his wardrobe.

_“The person you are trying to call is unavailable. If you would like to leave a voicemail message-”_

“FUCK!”

George didn’t leave a voicemail instead opening his texts to Box and frantically typing with one hand as he flung open his bedroom window to get some fresh air circulating.

**_wait no dontcome_ **

**_mums comign_ **

**_FUCK_ **

**_come later nstead_ **

**_pls pick up ur phone_ **

**_shithsitshittt_ **

****

He let out frustrated groan and chucked his phone down onto his bed, before dashing around his flat and gathering up as many mugs and dishes as he could find, before filling the dishwasher in record speed (he knew that Ronnie would cringe at his haphazard nesting of the bowls, and the carnage that was the cutlery tray).

That seemed to have dealt with the worst of the mess, although there were still a few empty wrappers here and there that he crinkled up and shoved into his pockets as he paced around his living room. Taking a deep breath and trying to prepare himself for the oncoming disaster, George retrieved his phone from the bedroom to find, predictably, his texts to Box unread.

T-minus two minutes until utter disaster.

Until an unstoppable force meets an immovable object and two very separate parts of his life collide, leaving him to try and keep the pieces together.

And he was still in his bloody pyjamas.

George threw on a pair of jeans so quickly that at first he stuck his foot right though the rip in the knee, causing him to stumble and _almost_ fall flat on his face in a knot of denim (sod’s law) and he grabbed a t-shirt that didn’t seem to be too wrinkled from his teetering laundry pile in the wardrobe.

He looked himself up and down in the bedroom mirror, at the bags under his eyes and his hair sticking up in all directions and swallowed nervously. How had he ended up here?

23 years old and shaking like a leaf, partially because his plans had gotten horribly messed up but mainly because he was too much of a damn coward to tell his own mum he was bi simply because it was easier not to.

Fuck this.

He went to open the window in the living room as well, suspecting that his flat smelt musty enough to be used as a bad example in a Febreze advert. Just as he did so, he noticed Box’s familiar car pull up outside.

Thinking for a moment that his day might actually be salvageable, George stuck his head out of the window and opened his mouth to call out to Ronnie and tell him to check his bloody phone. But, just as he did, another car parked just across the road, his mother’s little red hatchback with the sound of radio 2 playing from its open window. Sod’s law indeed.

Well, maybe it was time he just accepted his death.

Moving from the disaster avoidance phase to disaster management, George’s next desperate attempt to hold his life together meant intercepting his two guests before they had a chance to talk to each other.

That is, making sure that Ronnie didn’t have the time to introduce himself as George’s boyfriend.

So, he stuck a doorstop under his door and took the shared staircase about three steps at a time, his socks skidding on the hallway’s tiled floor. Dread twisted in his stomach when he saw two silhouettes through the frosted glass of the front door and heard the doorbell ring for him.

“Oh, it looks like we’re both here for the same person!” he heard his mum’s muffled voice through the door just as he reached it. He flung open the door before Box could say anything in return.

“Hi Mum!” he blurted out loudly, startling both of his visitors. Box looked him up and down with an amused expression; he no doubt looked a complete mess, startled as a deer in headlights. “Umm, this is… this is Ronnie, he’s, uh, a friend from work. I’d already asked him over by the time you texted.”

He had expected Box to be annoyed at the whole thing, but in reality, he just looked like he could tell exactly what was going through George’s head and was finding it all quite hilarious. He shook George’s mum’s free hand and smiled at her politely and called her ‘Mrs Fancy’, which drew a snort of laughter from her.

“Oh, no need to be all formal, luv. Call me Claire.” She then turned to George again. “And no need to cancel your plans on my account; I know I descended on you rather suddenly, and there’s plenty enough food here for three.”

George gulped and nodded, taking the heavy shopping bag from her. “My place is just at the top of the stairs,” he said, gesturing that she go up first. When she was out of earshot, George turned back to Ronnie. “I’m so sorry about this,” he hissed under his breath. “Look, I’m not out to her yet, do you mind…”

“Say no more, Georgie.”

George’s heart skipped several beats at that, and he really bloody wished he could kiss the stupid, tender, lovely smile off Ronnie’s face. “Right. Then prepare for the single most awkward lunch of your life.”

-

George’s mum already seemed to be making herself very comfortable by the time he and Ronnie reached his flat; she had finished snooping around his bedroom (thankfully without opening the wardrobe, as she’d probably end up buried in an avalanche of dirty clothes). “Well, you’ve got yourself quite a place here, haven’t you George?”

“Suppose so.” He shrugged, dumping the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. Ronnie helped him unload the stacks of convenience food. “It still needs a lick of paint here and there. Tea?”

“I’d love one.”

“And I’ll have a coffee,” Ronnie added, but George already knew that, of course.

George perched on the worktop while he waited for the kettle to boil, wringing his hands nervously. His eyes fell over Box, dishing up the various convenience foods his mum had bought, probably far more than they needed. He was humming something quietly as he did so.

Well, if any man was worth the risk of outing himself to his mum, it would be this one.

He was distracted from the thoughts that _that_ revelation brought by the kettle clicking off as it reached boiling.

“Since when did you drink oat milk?” came his mum’s voice; she’d seemingly extended her nosiness to looking around his bloody fridge. George panicked for a moment, because he _didn’t_ drink oat milk, it was there for Box, who preferred it to regular milk.

“Uh… I dunno it just tastes nicer,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Pass it, will you?”

She passed both the oat milk carton and a bottle of skimmed for herself, and George busied himself with making the drinks, having to focus very hard on not spilling hot tea all down himself.

Then came the greatest task of all: eating lunch with his impossibly nosy mother and his boyfriend-pretending-just-to-be-a-colleague and trying not to burst into tears from the stress of it.

In fairness, his mum really had outdone herself with the food, or, rather, M&S had outdone themselves with the food.

George dug into a slice of quiche and started to think that _perhaps_ this wouldn’t be all too bad.

“So, how did you two meet?” Mum piped up over her cup of tea.

Oh. No, it really was bad. Bollocks.

“I told you, Mum, he’s a work friend.”

“We did a couple cases together when I was workin’ in robbery,” Box answered, seeing George squirm under his mother’s questions. “An’ then I moved to CID; was nice to have a familiar face around for my first few days, I guess.”

Was it? Was Box just saying that, or had George really been a comforting _familiar face_ as Box settled into his new job? His stomach twisted slightly, and this time not from nerves. He was probably overthinking this. He took another slice of quiche.

“Aww,” Mum practically _cooed_ , for Christ’s sake. “At least there’s someone to look after you when you’re off chasing _murderers_ , George. Although what you need is someone to feed you up, by the looks of things. Have another slice of bread!”

“ _Mum!_ ”

“What?”

George groaned. “Believe it or not, I _am_ actually capable of doing my job without supervision. And feeding myself.”

It seemed from Ronnie’s expression that he was having a lot of fun watching this little tiff. “Aw, I don’t know about that Georgie boy, you’re a walking disaster. Didn’t you accidentally staple yourself last week?”

“Well I thought it only worked on paper! How was I to know it would actually go _into_ my finger?”

Ronnie and George’s mum shared a look, and it felt worryingly like they were finding some kind of common ground over making fun of him. He’d never hear the end of it from either of them.

“There was a time when he was a little kid, probably about two or three,” Mum began. Any sentence that started like _that_ could go in all manner of terrible directions. “He was running in the park and he tripped, but he didn’t want to get his hands muddy, so he put them behind his back and fell forwards like a bloody plank! Split his lip open and all, we had to go and get him stitches at A&E.”

Yeah, George was absolutely never going to hear the end of this from Ronnie.

The two of them fell into easy conversation about that exchanging seemingly endless stories of George being an idiot and/or getting injured in ridiculous ways. He might have actually been able to appreciate the humour of the situation were it not for the nagging feeling of the secret sitting underneath his skin.

He could just tell her now. Blurt it out and interrupt the conversation, and they’d both stare at him and he’d have to follow it up with some fumbled explanation for why he’d been lying to his mum, and it would be awkward and horrible and he’d want the ground to swallow him up. Okay, so maybe not.

He tried not to think of it as he shovelled mini scotch eggs onto his plate.

-

As they were clearing up the cluttered table, George’s mum excused herself to the toilet, leaving him and Ronnie alone for a moment, _at last_.

He let out a tense, long-suffering sigh. “I’m so sorry about this,” he groaned as they both carried an armful of dirty dishes into the kitchen and dumped them on the worktop. “Don’t know how I’m gonna get through it, this is driving me up the _fucking_ wall.”

A pair of arms snaked around his waist, and Ronnie nuzzled his way to the crook of George’s neck to place a kiss there. “S’okay, I don’t mind. Look, jus’ try and relax lovey, I can keep her distracted talking ‘bout work for as long as you need.”

It was _this_ , this gesture of help when he needed it, more than anything else Ronnie had done for him, that made George realise that he bloody well _loved_ the man.

The grip around his waist loosened, and George watched, only half paying attention, as Box started tidying up. “George Fancy, your dishwasher is an _absolute_ car crash! Who loaded this? A bleedin’ chimpanzee?”

George was being glared at in a way that was probably meant to scold him, but all he could think is _I fucking love you_ , so he surged forwards, wrapped his arms around Box’s neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.

And, of course, because George’s life was blessed with the best timing, they then heard the distinctive click of the lock on the bathroom door as it was opened. The two of them jumped apart as if they’d been hit by an electric shock; Ronnie quickly got back to trying to reorganise the dishwasher as if nothing had happened at all, but George was still a little dazed, and it took him a moment to get his bearings in his own kitchen again.

“You boys need help with anything over there?” Mum’s voice came from the doorway in a tone that sounded very much like she had no intention of helping.

“Nah we’re good,” George called back. “You just make yourself comfortable.”

They finished clearing up and made a second round of hot drinks to accompany the eclairs that had apparently just fallen into his mum’s bag of their own accord with no input from her whatsoever, or so she claimed. George wasn’t going to complain, regardless.

This time they were sitting around the living room, George on an armchair and his two guests opposite him on either side of the sofa; the arrangement was reminiscent of some kind of job interview or interrogation.

Despite this, he felt more comfortable with the conversation than he had done at dinner. He could breathe a bit, safe in the knowledge that Ronnie wasn’t going to let anything slip. In fact, he and George’s mum got on like a house on fire, and she didn’t seem able to tire of hearing his stories from years of working as a detective.

One thing was certain: this didn’t feel like a fling anymore. It hadn’t for a while, but never had it been more obvious than now, as he watched Ronnie fit into his family like he belonged. No, it didn’t feel like a fling at all.

It felt like something that he could do forever.

“Right, I’ll get myself out of your hair luv.” George’s mum drained the last of her tea and heaved herself off the sofa and began gathering up her things from around the living room. “I’ve got a meeting to get to, and I’ve been in your way long enough. I’ll leave you the leftover food, though; God knows you need feeding up.”

“I’m _fine_ Mum.”

“Oh, so do you want me to take the food then?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Thought so.”

Box stood up and shook her hand with a warm expression (George wanted to melt a little). “It was nice meetin’ you Mrs- uh, Claire.”

“You too. And make sure George doesn’t do anything stupid like staple himself again, alright?”

“I’ll try my best.”

Finally, George led his mum downstairs, out of his flat and away from the danger of her making assumptions about him that she didn’t need to make.

When they got to the front door, George’s mum bundled him in for a hug goodbye, and forced a kiss onto his forehead. “Your boyfriend seems nice,” she said suddenly, as if it weren’t as Earth-shatteringly important as it was.

George’s heart stopped for a moment. “What?”

“I mean, he’s not the kind of bloke I’d have expected for you, but he really is lovely. And it doesn’t hurt that he _is_ quite easy on the eye-”

“ _What?_ How…” he spluttered, “how did you…”

She just smiled knowingly. “Well, the photo of you two together in the hall was a bit of a giveaway.” (Shit, he’d forgotten about that.) “But I could also just tell. Mums _are_ psychic, you know.” Was it really so noticeable? He thought the two of them had managed to hide it rather well, and they still mostly kept their relationship under wrap at work even when they had cases together, so surely it wasn’t _that_ obvious.

Unless everyone at work already knew and were just humouring them. A worry for another day.

“Oh. Fair.” George didn’t really know what to say. After all this time dancing around the topic, not just today but half his bloody life, he still couldn’t put the words together. “Well, this is probably… probably pretty obvious by now. I mean you’re not blind, it doesn’t take much to put two and two together. But… I-I know I’ve never said it to you properly. And I want to, I’ve wanted to for ages, just it’s _hard_ , right? Like I know you don’t mind, but it’s just easier not to say anything. And then not saying anything turns into lies of omission, which turn into straight up _lies_ , but… look, I just panic, right, I just freak out and forget all the words and then I ramble, and I’m rambling now because it’s the easy option but what I really want… what I really want to say is that _basicallyimbisexual_.”

Very elegantly done, even if he did say so himself.

He met his mum’s eyes for the first time in this entire conversation and she was smiling up at him, so full of warmth and light that he felt like a little kid again. But then she chuckled too, which seemed odd, and she said, “I know, luv, you told me _ages_ ago.”

“What?” Perhaps he’d misheard her; the adrenaline was still rendering him slightly dazed. “No I didn’t?”

“Mm, you definitely did. You were about seventeen, I think? Granted, you were absolutely hammered at the time,” she laughed. “You made a bit of a state of yourself, to be honest, so I wouldn’t blame you for forgetting it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

For _fuck’s_ sake.

Trust him to come out and then bloody _forget about it_.

“So, you’re telling me,” George choked out, his voice high pitched as if he were trying not to scream because he was very much trying not to scream, “that I’ve spent the last six years trying and failing to come out to you, and when I finally do it turns out I already have? Why have you never mentioned it since!?”

“I didn’t want to intrude; it’s your life, who you like is none of my business, and you’ve always been quite a private person when it comes to family.”

George let out a very tense breath, trying to compose himself when his nerves still felt like they were plugged right into the national grid. Eventually he smiled and hugged her goodbye again, this time tighter and warmer, like he used to do when he was younger. It _did_ still feel nice to have the weight off his chest, even if it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. “Well, good luck with your meeting, Mum. Love you.”

“Love you too, darling. And keep a hold of that man: I can see how he looks at you and that’s not easy to come by.”

(Oh God, was he going to cry? No. Definitely not. Maybe. Bloody hell.) “I’ll try my best, if you haven’t already scared him off.”

He stood at the door until she was in the car, at which point he trudged back upstairs to his flat, to it’s warmth and comfort, and the man who was up there waiting for him who he desperately wanted to hold and never let go.

And there were three chocolate eclairs left upstairs; he deserved at _least_ two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> me?? chanelling coming out angst into a fic??......... never
> 
> ok this was a pure crack fic but the more i wrote of it the more accidentally tender it got and this is what we're left with. george is an idiot and we love him.


End file.
